Day 6

Dear Diary,

I’m having an anxiety attack. We’ve been at the café for hours and hours and it is now the next morning. For some reason, the large, not so well-dressed gentleman and Finian Da Fabricator left with Thelma O’Leary when she closed up and followed her home (which was just next door). Unfortunately, they’d parked the lorry and trailer (with me on it) where I can’t properly spy on the house. As a consequence I couldn’t rightly see what they got up to. Mind you, I doubt it was anything worth watching, what with the large, used-to-be well-dressed gentleman being so abnormally round and Finian Da Fabricator mouthing off all the time and Thelma O’Leary resembling a skanky toad. Now, if Fergal Da Fecker had been among them, it would’ve been different. Shouting and yelling and moaning and groaning and huffing and puffing and sweating and bringing the roof down. All in all, I suppose it’s just as well he stayed at The Petrol Station, where he can’t offend anyone. Except, perhaps, customers, but the sane ones hardly ever go there.

When night came and the cold came in off the sea I was reminded how sunburned and roasted I’d got during the hours and hours I’d sat in front of the café waiting for the large, not so well-dressed gentleman and Finian Da Fabricator to remember I was waiting for them. Owld Fingus Da Flatulator, before he blew hisself up, used to wax and polish me every other day or so. But, of course, Fergal Da Fecker is a feckin’ lazy sod, and besides he couldn’t have cared a boiled parsnip about me, which meant I’ve dried out completely. After a full day under the hot sun, I’m afraid my paint will peel dreadfully and they’ll send me to the scrap yard. In spite of me being a ‘classic’ and all.

I’ve decided the large gentleman is not so much large as he’s a great giant fat blubbery twelve tonne whale slug. I know it’s not polite to talk like that, at least not any more or where anyone can hear you, but I spent a large part of yesterday watching the large gentleman shovelling food into his mouth worse than a pig at a trough (with apologies to the pig). He’s fat. Obese. Gross. A Great Greasy Wobblebottom. I don’t know whether he was born with fat genes, but he sure has ‘em now. I wonder what his wife has to say about it.

You can tell I’m in a foul mood, can’t you. But they left me here all day while they ate and ate, and then went next door with Thelma O’Leary, where they carried on all night and forgot all about me. The first thing I’ll do when I get down from this trailer is run them over.

While watching the large, formerly well-dressed whale-like gentleman and Finian Da Fabricator gorge themselves on Thelma O’Leary’s greasy, burnt offerings, and having nothing better to do than reminisce, I was put in mind of better years and cafes a whole lot more appealing than this one. One in particular, back in the days when I was chartered by Golden Twilight Years Tours, transporting amazingly old people (I know I not supposed to call them old, but they were) round and round The Continent. Except for my upholstery, which I really felt sorry for, it was an easy gig. Never had to drive to far or to too many out of way places, on account of none of the passengers remembering where they’d just been. The tour guide and owner, Pergulla Da Splatta, who turned out to be owld Fingus Da Flatulator’s twin sister (which had something to do with him winning the bus by cheating at cards, but that’s another story for another day), used to tell the chauffeur, who was her idiot son, Mingus Da Pingus, to drive ahead for about a mile and a half, or until the next toilet. After they’d disembarked everyone and emptied them all out (this was before nappies were sold to amazingly old people, which is why my upholstery got ruint over and over again every night and morning), they’d turn the bus around and head back to where they were before, namely The Golden Twilight Years All-You-Can-Eat Restaurant, owned (you guessed it) by Pergulla Da Splatta. Of course, all the amazingly old people immediately enthused over the original quaint and peasanty features of the joint, and asked if they could stop and eat there, on account of it being so old-fashioned and all. ‘Course, they all wanted to take hundred of photos of themselves being served by the local peasants (mostly Pergulla Da Splatta and Mingus Da Pingus in disguise), and Pergulla always said, “Sure, sweety, and would you like a to buy a new camera for the pictures’ll be extra nice?” Naturally, what with the amazingly old people being politer than a cat after it’s dead, were more than happy to oblige, little knowing that the cameras being sold them didn’t have a lick of film between them. Wouldn’t have done much for Pergulla Da Splatta’s reputation if it got out that they weren’t actually taking the amazingly old people around Europe like they’d promised to.

Anyway, what I remember best about The Golden Twilight Years All-You-Can-Eat Restaurant, besides the full toilets, which were of the quaint, earth closet variety to make ‘em seem more authentic, was the manner of the service. But that’ll have to wait until tomorrow for me to write about. I’ve just seen the large, well-dressed gentleman (who must’ve had a shower after doing whatever he did, cuz he looks almost respectable again) and Finian Da Fabricator come out of Thelma O’Leary’s house, and they are heading in my direction. And just when I was starting to worry they’d forgot all about me!

They’re climbing into the cab of the truck, or at least Finian Da Fabricator is; the large well-dressed gentleman is more like hauling hisself in and making rude grunting noises. But such is life.

We’re off!!!!! I’ll put my notebook and pencil away, so they don’t get broke going over potholes or blown away in the wind. So, it’s time to say, “so endeth another day.”